


Five Ill-Considered Crimes in New York City

by Prochytes



Category: Daredevil (TV), Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Fist (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Luke Cage (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 08:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13290684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prochytes/pseuds/Prochytes
Summary: Joey is, perhaps, the least successful career criminal in New York. In his defence, the town isn’t quite the same as when he started.





	1. Out of Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Small spoilers for _Jessica Jones_ to 1x02 and _Doctor Strange_. Swearing, off-stage violence, and some dark themes from Chapter Four onwards.

“It was a solid plan,” said Joey, as he tried to hail the waitress. He was still having a bit of trouble lifting his arm above the shoulder, but the hospital had assured him that full mobility would probably return in the long run. “Solid.”

Turk nodded sympathetically. 

“Jump the owner of a cash-in-hand business just after closing- up. As plans go, it’s one of the standards. Simple. Pristine.” Joey had heard someone use that word of a successful job in a movie once. He wasn’t one hundred per cent sure what it meant, but it sounded cool. “ _Pristine._ ”

“So, why you look like shit, man?” Turk beckoned to the waitress, who trotted over. “Two burgers with the works, sweetheart, to match my friend here’s face.”

“You should have seen the other guy.”

Turk beamed. “That’s my boy. Gave as good as you got, huh?”

“Well…. no,” Joey admitted. “She beat the ever-loving crap out of me. But the chick was _fine_ to look at. I’d go so far as to say ‘smoking’.”

“You’re telling me a hot chick left you with a face like that? Where the hell was this, again?”

“Like I said, outside where she worked. In Chinatown. Her, um, dojo.”

Turk’s eyes narrowed above his mouthful of burger. He swallowed. “So, when you said, ‘I jumped someone outside their place of work’, what you _meant_ was: ‘I jumped Bruce Leanne outside her badass-factory’?”

“Er. Kinda?”

Turk sighed. “Joey, I love you like a brother. But your Threat Assessment game… it isn’t strong.”


	2. Out of the Park

“It’s OK,” said Joey. “The cast comes off tomorrow.”

“At least they had the decency to break your _other_ arm.” Turk pushed a beer across the table. “Your rematch with Miss _Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon_ didn’t go so well, huh?”

“What? No – that’s yesterday’s news. I’m refining my m. o..” Joey wondered whether it would do his rep irreparable damage to ask for a straw. Getting the bottle to his lips was a bit of a performance at the moment. “From now on, Joey’s all about the bar jobs.”

“Uh-huh.” Turk gestured at the plaster. “So, which barkeep gave you _that_ on the house?”

“The one at that place where Ringo drinks. Dude with a name like a wrestler.”

Turk whistled. “That bald motherfucker who’s, like, eight feet tall? Jeez, Joey. When you double down, you double down.”

“My daddy told me that they’re all the same height once you lay them out.”

“Your daddy, rest his soul, was a stand-up guy, one of the best I ever knew.” Turk took a swig from his bottle. “He asked me always to look out for you, and I surely have. But your daddy was also the ditziest son-of-a-bitch who ever put on a balaclava and forgot to take off the “Hello – my name is ‘Jimmy’” badge from his legit job when he did it.”

“That was ONE TIME.”

“Yeah, right,” said Turk. “How did the wheels come off this caper, then?”

Joey sagged. “The mark was locking up the bar at the end of the night. The plan was to knock him out cold with a two-by-four and steal the takings.”

“Sounds solid.”

“Uh-huh.” Joey winced. “Shame the two-by-four wasn’t. Damned thing broke in half across his head.”

“The industrial decline of this once-great nation in a nutshell,” said Turk sagely. 

“Then it was _mano e mano_.” Joey paused. “Well, actually just _mano_. Dude tossed me over a wall. With one hand.”

“You want to get that concussion seen to, boy. Ain’t no motherfucker can punt a grown man over a wall with just one hand.”

“You want me to call the motherfucker back for a demo?”

“I’ll pass on that.” Turk exhaled thoughtfully. “Joey, don’t take this the wrong way, but… have you ever considered whether you’re really cut out for The Life?”

“You shitting me, Turk?”

“Thing is, man, you got skills. You’re book-smart. There are other ways of living your life. That’s all I’m saying.”

Joey snorted. “Counting holes in Blackburn, Lancashire?”

“Huh?”

“It’s from a song. The Beatles, ‘A Day in the Life’. Last track on _Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band_ \- released 26 May, 1967.”

“See? You own dumb-assed shit like that. You’re just… not very good at being a criminal.”

“It’s all I’ve ever known. All I’ve ever wanted to be.”

Turk raised his hands in defeat. “Just thought I’d float it. Like I promised your daddy, I got your back. Always.”

“Does that mean you’re picking up the tab tonight?”

“It does not.”


	3. Out of Sight

So then – lawyers. Who doesn’t love a good joke about lawyers?

In the Thirteenth Century (as Joey had discovered from one of those books that Turk twitted him for reading), Yves Hélory, a pious Breton lawyer, noticed that the legal profession had no patron saint. He asked the Pope to furnish it with one. The Pontiff told Yves to go into a chapel, walk blindfolded around it while saying a certain number of Hail Marys, reach out for an image, and take that image’s subject for his patron. When Yves opened his eyes, he discovered that he was standing beside a depiction of St. Michael, and touching a picture of Satan, squashed beneath the archangel’s foot. 

That’s the slippery thing about the dark. Sometimes you’ll reach for a lawyer, and grab the Devil. 

Joey did not feel proud of himself for going after a blind dude. But he had only just recovered from his last two outings. He felt that he was owed some low-hanging fruit. And everybody knew that lawyers (he had tailed the guy from the offices of a law firm, though admittedly a rather tatty one) made good money. 

He had been just about to grab the dude by the shoulder and make his play. There was a blur of movement, as though the mark had thrown a stone (which made no sense at all – the dude was, after all, blind), and a crack of glass. The alley was plunged into darkness, through which the lawyer must have staggered off someplace. Joey was left in the alley with… something else. 

The something hit a little harder than Kung-Fu Lady, a lot softer than the mountainous barkeep (this had been happening so much to Joey recently that he had started to develop a Mohs Scale of ass-kicking), but much more systematically than either. Joey could barely drag himself to hospital when it was done. 

His wounds were tended by an ethereally lovely nurse, who looked as though she hadn’t slept since a Bush was President. Her hands were firm and gentle; her knees were shaking. Joey realized, with a clarity that somehow hit harder even than the big guy, that she was trembling with the effort of staying on her feet. He stared at her furrowed brow, through the haze of meds, and thought: _every self-destructive piece of shit like me digs that furrow deeper._

Later, at the bar, he tried to chase the thought away with beer, alone. Turk had cried off, saying that business had suddenly got… demanding. Joey considered asking, but decided against it. Turk could be real tetchy, when work wasn’t going well.


	4. Out of Mind

“Hand over your wallet,” Joey said, as he brandished his new piece. “Do it now.”

“Mmmm,” the thin man in the fancy suit rocked back on his heels. He smiled a lazy smile. A chill settled on Joey’s spine, as he recognized that fathomless calm in the face of what should have been a threat which he had been seeing so often lately. The plughole down which all the reason and order in Joey’s world had drained away. “I’m thinking… no. _Give me your gun, and then stand still_.”

Joey held out the gun to the thin man, who inspected the piece. Joey stood still. In his chest, the silent scream – that would grow to be deafening, and never loud enough – began to build. 

“Not loaded,” the thin man said, as he tossed the gun over one shoulder. “Typical. All mouth and no trousers, as we used to say back in Blighty. Now, I could make you a killer… er… _What’s your name?_ ” 

The question-mark in that voice tore at Joey’s tongue like a fishhook ruining a trout’s mouth. “Joey. Joey W…”

The thin man held up a hand. “First name’s fine. I’m not one to stand on ceremony. As I said, Joey, I could make you a killer. All it takes is a single word. But I don’t need a killer; I need a shopper. Someone to fetch presents for my special girl. We’re both men of the world.” He rubbed the lapel on Joey’s threadbare jacket between his fingers. “A well set-up young man like you knows where I’m coming from.”

Joey stole. 

He stole rings and pendants, tiaras, brooches, and bracelets. He stole dresses off the rack with exacting care (the “special girl” seemed to be a tall and slender woman – the thin man was insistent that they had to fit just right) and candy off children, because the thin man thought that that was funny. He stole until his vision blurred and his fingers bled. 

The thin man took two or three items from what Joey stole, and dropped all the others on the sidewalk. He told Joey to stand in a corner, and walked away. Joey stood in the corner. He soiled himself twice before he discovered, twelve hours later, that he could leave it.


	5. Out of the Kitchen

“Nice pad you’ve got here,” said Joey, squinting a little. 

“The Sanctum is generally agreed to be quite nice. That probably explains why idiots try to burgle it.”

“Ah. Yeah. Sorry about that, man. I’m not apologizing just because I’m stuck in this glowy spotlight thing. Although I won’t pretend that that isn’t a factor.”

“Your candour is noted.”

“What _is_ this glowy spotlight thing, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“The Light of Agamotto, First Master, is upon you. Side-effects may include: giddiness; slight nausea; the clarification to the subject of his own intent. And his head exploding.”

“Right.”

“We’re fairly sure that that last one got ironed out in the Fifth Century beta-testing.”

“Good to know.” Joey swallowed. “I’m aware that I’m not in any position to make demands. But I can’t seem to leave this light. You should know that I have issues about mind-control.”

“So do I. The Light merely clarifies intent. You’re not leaving it because, at some level, you’re not yet ready to do so.”

“No disrespect, but why wouldn’t I want to run like hell from the House on Haunted Hill?”

“That’s what I’m interested in finding out, Joey.”

Joey frowned. “How do you know my name? Does this thing let you read my mind?”

“No. Your name’s written on the tag that’s sticking out from the neck of your jacket.”

“Shit.”

“You have the same family name as a friend of mine.” The tall man in the cape floated closer. “Why did you try to rob my Sanctum, Joey?”

Joey moistened his lips. “One last job. Something big to set me up, before I got out. I just can’t do this anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Some bad shit has happened to me lately.” Joey paused. He remembered the tired face of the ER nurse, and sighed. “No – that’s not it. At least, not all of it. I can’t stop thinking about what _my_ stupid shit does to other people.”

“I’m afraid you’ve contracted empathy, Joey,” the tall man said. He sounded sad. “There isn’t a cure, although I still wake up most mornings wishing that there were.”

“ _I will let you down; I will make you hurt,_ ” Joey said morosely. 

“Great song. Familiar to most people, of course, from the Johnny Cash album, released on November 5, 2002.”

“Although they forget that the original is Nine Inch Nails, released on April 17, 1995.”

“They do.” The tall man smiled. “You have hidden depths, Joey.”

“They don’t feel so hidden when I’m standing here. But I think that I can probably move now.”

“I think you probably can.”

“I can’t help noticing,” said Joey, as he stepped, blinking, out of the light, “that your pad, though fine, could do with some TLC.”

“Just the detritus from a run-in with a little sorcerous death-cult. I haven’t gotten around to sweeping up.”

“Could you possibly use an extra pair of hands around the place? I’m on the market.”

“Are you suggesting that the Master of the Mystic Arts needs a manservant?”

Joey snorted. “What is this, 1963? I’m suggesting that the Master of the Mystic Arts needs a roadie.”

“Hmm.”

“And let’s face it: a dude who can fly – which is way cool, by the way – could use a man who’s got his ear to the ground. And not just because that man’s been decked by a ninja babe, or a massive motherfucker with immunity to planks.”

“There may be something in that.” The tall man stroked his chin. “Salary to be determined?”

“Cool. Is there dental?”

“There will undoubtedly be teeth.”

“Where do I sign?” asked Joey Wong. 

FINIS

**Author's Note:**

> The story about Yves (who ultimately became a patron saint of lawyers himself) is taken from B. Blackburn and L. Holford-Strevens (edd.), _The Oxford Companion to the Year_ (Oxford, 1999), 213-4. Thanks to arachnekallisti for an idea about the criminal career of Joey's dad.


End file.
